


FrattWeek 2021

by Beguile



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: And xover is a pretty strong tag, Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Fooling Around?, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucinogens, M/M, Making Out, Non-Consensual Drug Use At One Point, One-Shots, Showers, Sweetness, Totally forgot I did that..., Tumblr Prompts, h/c, there's a xover with Wandavision at one point?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29465583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: I had a request to post my Tumblr prompts from FrattWeek, and I am happy to oblige. I hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 16
Kudos: 52
Collections: Fratt Week





	1. "water" + "nail"

* * *

“water” + “nail”

Ending up in Red’s apartment isn’t part of the plan, but neither is getting shot with a nail gun. Or Red showing up at the scene, for that matter. Whole damn night’s a wash, really, so why shouldn’t it end in Red’s bathroom, Frank struggling to get the nails out of his bicep?

Red swats his hand away. “Here,” he says, taking over. He gets two nails out in rapid succession, and he’s about to get a third, but Frank can’t abide by his skill. He swats Red away, then goes back to digging his blunt nails into the skin around the nail head. There are three more to go, and Frank can absolutely do this by himself.

He gets the next nail out in more time than it takes for Red to ninja himself back into the area, nabbing the last two nails with his feisty little hands.

“I was getting to those,” Frank says.

“Not fast enough,” Red replies. He runs a cloth under some water and washes off Frank’s arm with one quick stroke. More blood bubbles to the surface. This, Red catches with his own balled up t-shirt.

Frank glares at him, tries to shake him off. “You trying to give me an infection, Red?”   
  
“My shirt’s clean.”   
  
“For once.” Rare night that the Punisher is wearing more of his own blood than the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Besides,” Red says, tossing his head towards the shower, “I figured you’re going to get cleaned up.”   
  
Frank doesn’t blink. He never does. Not on any of the bad nights when the shit hits the fan. When Red’s at his place or they’re back here. One of them says something in this game of chicken they play, and the other one doesn’t back down, and Frank guesses it’s his night to take them to the next level. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get the water running?”  
  
Red props Frank’s hand onto the t-shirt, applying pressure to the wound, while he gets the shower running. There’s barely enough room for one of them in there, let alone two, but that’s part of the game, an added challenge. Be the one who says it’s too cramped. There’s a standing double dog dare in place for them both to simultaneously be the one who says yes and the one who says no. It’s a weird zero sum game that Frank doesn’t think about because he knows Red isn’t either, and the second one of them does start thinking, it’s game over, they both lose.

Frank throws down the tee the second Red tries to get out of the shower entrance. He walks forward, stretching his arms out to either side of the door and using his chest to force Red inside. The water is still cold, but Red doesn’t cry out in surprise. He hops up, legs around Frank’s waist, and gets the first kiss of the night. Frank concedes at that. Plenty of other firsts for him to get to, and the firsts later in the night always matter the most.


	2. "ring"

* * *

"ring"

“So this is where the magic happens,” Frank says, wandering around Fogwell’s appraisingly.

Matt lets him get a feel for the place. He likes the sound of Frank’s boots on the floor, the way they reveal Fogwell’s to him through vibrations. He has a clear sense of the bags, the benches, the rafters, the ring. “Been happening for a long time,” he finally says. “I used to come here with my dad.”  
  
“Yeah, I see.” Frank’s stopped in front of what must be the poster on the wall: Murdock vs. Creel. He turns and heads straight for the ring, hopping up inside with a practiced ease. Of course, Frank’s boxed. Matt doubts there’s a kind of combat sport Frank hasn’t tried.

He follows Frank up and stands on the edge of the ring, outside the ropes. Frank prowls through the space like a caged animal even though he’s the one who climbed inside. He has the same energy as Elektra when she was in the ring. Matt stands at the edge of the threshold, the past and the future meeting in a strange kind of déjà vu and the inevitability of what’s to come, he crosses into Frank’s world.

Honestly, he knew when he brought Frank here where this was leading. Part of the reason he came was to have it happen. Fogwell’s Gym shouldn’t be his lucky charm for getting laid, but there’s a fine line between fighting and fucking, and Frank doesn’t know where the hell it is.

Matt does, but he just doesn’t care.

He comes through the ropes, about to say more about the place, but there’s already a punch coming his way. Frank can’t keep his footsteps quiet, not that he’s trying to, and Matt dodges. He comes back around fast, defending a volley of blows as he makes his way into the centre of the ring. Frank’s wearing a smirk, one that’s audible with every breath he takes.

“Not gonna let me put you into the ropes, are you?” Frank asks, throwing a few more punches.

Matt whips out of the way, spinning until he’s right where Frank’s teased about putting him. He stretches out his arms along the ropes in mock repose. “I do my best fighting on the ropes.” And, to prove it, he lands three punches when Frank comes for him.

Frank clocks him across the face, not as hard, Matt notices, as usual, but hard enough that he doesn’t remember the next two swings he takes. When the fight comes back, he’s locked arms with Frank and thrown him onto the floor of the ring. Matt jumps down, landing on nothing. Frank comes out of nowhere and tackles him, and Matt lands with the Punisher pinning him down.

The fight isn’t over for Frank, but Matt is tired of the foreplay. He grabs Frank by the collar of his tee and pulls himself up, landing a kiss clumsily to the left of Frank’s mouth. The line’s crossed for him, but not for Frank, who still makes like he’s gonna beat the shit out of him only to kiss Matt back fiercely, his hands wrapping up in Matt’s shirt until it tears. The line finally crossed for him too.


	3. "park" + "hallucinations"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written to fill a prompt for Febuwhump as well.

* * *

“park” + “hallucinations”

Frank actually did finish the asshole off this time; he had half a mind to not, usually didn’t on Red’s turf, but he saw the attack from his nest on a nearby roof. Red got in his way, kept him from making a shot. Then the asshole got Red straight to the face with some kind of aerosol. Red had a fit and bolted, and Frank, in a race to catch him, put one right between the asshole’s eyes.

He follows Red’s trail north, eventually ending up off the streets, over the stone wall, and into a wooded corner of Central Park. Red isn’t far; Frank can’t hear him breathing. A few more steps, and Frank can see him moving, a shadow between the trees. His stupid devil helmet hits the ground. Red reaches his other arm out and plants it against a tree trunk, his back curving forward, muscles tensing. His shoulder blades rise up under his suit like wings unfurling.

Frank comes at him from the side rather than behind. There’s definitely something wrong. The fact that he hasn’t moved, that he hasn’t spoken. The fact that his head is hanging, and he’s just standing there, breathing. The faint moonlight picks up on the sweat over his fact and brow, through his hair. Frank wouldn’t put it past the kid to fight off a sedative, but he doubts that was all that was in the gas.

“You with me, Red?” he asks.

Red doesn’t lift his head. His fingers crimp on the tree. “I should…be asking you…that question,” he says, breathless. He scrubs a hand over his face. Frank sees his eyes open, then shut, then open again. Red laughs, the edges of his lips pulling into an unhinged smile. “Are you with me, Frank? Can I even ask you that?”   
  
“I’m with you.”   
  
Another laugh. Red pulls himself up to standing, his eyes fever bright in even the dim moonlight. “I was about to ask you to tell me something only you would know. But whatever you know could be whatever I know, so-“   
  
“The shit he gave you-“   
  
Red nods. “Yeah. The shit he gave me.”

“What’s it doing?” Kid’s silent, scanning. His freak senses, Frank thinks, but he’s moving strange, tracking shit that isn’t there. “You’re seeing things?”   
  
“Yeah, I’m seeing things. Hearing things, too. You might be one of them.”   
  
“I’m not.”   
  
Red laughs. “Can you prove it?”

Frank comes closer to him, puts the back of his hand on Red’s arm just for a second. Red’s deranged smile drops, and his head does too, and he releases a heavy breath. Frank puts his hand back, palm down this time, the touch grounding Red in a way that words can’t. He tightens his grip, just enough for Red to stand up straight, for his breath to slow.

“I always said that I’d want to see the sky again, one more time, and now I’m…” Red makes like he’s swallowing back a retch, and maybe he is.

“Close your eyes,” Frank tells him.

“Doesn’t help. I’m still seeing it. Everywhere. The sky, my dad’s face. And I’m hearing things, too, screaming? Is that real, Frank? Is the screaming real?”

“Nobody’s screaming.”  
  
Red bites back a cry. His face crumples up into what looks like tears. “You might not be real,” he says, wiping the back of his hand over his face.

Frank puts an arm around him, tugs him closer to bring him back, bring him here. Red centres himself in the weight of Frank’s grasp. “I’m real,” Frank says quietly, “I’m real, and I’m here. That shit you’re seeing and hearing, it’s not, and it’ll pass. You hear me, Red? That’s real. That it’ll pass.”

Red nods, his whole face dripping with sweat and tears.

“Come on,” Frank says. He scoops up the devil helmet and draws Red back, towards the wall, “I’ll take you home.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Frank Castle I know,” Red says, but he moves his feet where Frank leads just the same.

“Only because you don’t ever wait to have it said,” Frank snaps.

“You don’t ever keep me waiting,” Red adds quietly.

Frank doesn’t dignify that with a response. He withdraws his arm. “You feeling well enough to tease-“

“Who’s teasing?”  
  
“The asshole hopped up on hallucinogens,” Frank says. He gives Red a push to the wall. “What are you seeing now?”   
  
Red lays back against the stone, fully immersed in the shadow now. He sighs. “You,” he says. Sounds like a come on, and Frank’s about to wipe that smirk off his face, but Red isn’t smirking. His eyes are closed, and he’s languishing there between Frank and the rocks, riding out the high calmly.

Frank takes a step closer, letting his whole body hold Red in the moment, in the dark.   
  



	4. "red" + "who are you?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, right! So I wrote this as a crossover with _WandaVision_. There is virtually no mention of any of the _WandaVision_ characters or even the central conflict of the show. I used it purely as a staging area for these prompt fills. So if you're a _WandaVision_ viewer, and you're thinking, "Wow, this is almost intentionally side-stepping the major conflicts of the show. I have so many questions, like how is this impacting Matt's senses? How did Frank get to Westview?" this one-shot provides zero explanations.

* * *

“who are you?” + “red”

Days at the Westview Precinct weren’t like what Frank remembered from the city, and he was trying to love it for Mary’s sake. She wanted safer for the kids, safer for him, if he was being honest. That last case from New York had nearly done him in, bullet to the noggin and all that, but those days were behind Frank. Now, he was dealing with unpaid parking tickets, missing pets, minor property damage. Most days, he wondered why he had a gun more than he thought about using his.

They’d been there – oh, Frank didn’t know. Couple months? Years? Time didn’t matter so much in Westview, only the moving forward. The boys were hitting double digits this weekend. They were hosting a barbecue. Mary was calling him nonstop with things to pick up on his way home from work, and Frank liked that, he really did, getting to be a husband and a father, though picking up cake mix struck him the same way everything else in this town did. It was fine, and he loved it. Well, he was trying to love it. Why couldn’t he love it?

He was going through some old case files, taking forever to recognize his signature on the documents. The dates looked blurry in front of his eyes. Suddenly, Morrison was there at his desk, guiding a guy into the seat. The guy had had better days by the looks of things. His gray suit was rumpled, his tie was loose; he had a cane folded up in one hand and brandished it a little bit like a weapon, every muscle in his body poised in defence. His face was somewhat twisted in discomfort, pain, and his breathing was so slow and controlled it looked like he was breathing through something.

Frank’s eyes locked on the red of his sunglasses and stayed there while Morrison said, “Caught this guy walking through traffic on Main Street. He’s got no ID, no nothing, and he won’t talk to me. You give him a try?”

Morrison’s words didn’t make a damn bit of sense, not with those red lenses burning into Frank’s retinas. Frank pulled his eyes away and flipped the case files on his desk shut. “Yeardley busy? Tazewell?” He wanted to pass the guy off to literally anyone else, get him out of the chair. Frank couldn’t explain in, but the hairs on the back of his neck were sticking up. Prickles of electricity were running through his face and scalp, collecting in that old bullet wound that was a graze. Frank remembered it was a graze, and Mary had said he was lucky.

Then they came here.

“Yeardley and Tazewell aren’t you,” Morrison said. “I mean, unless he wants to start talking to me.” 

The guy said nothing. His lips pursed into a thinner line, and he still wasn’t finished brandishing that cane like a sword. Frank rolled his eyes, shoving the case files to the side. “Yeah, fine. I’ll handle him.” 

“Thank you,” Morrison said curtly, walking away with a flourish.

Frank didn’t make eye contact. “Could have saved yourself a whole lot of trouble, you gave Morrison your name.” 

“But then I wouldn’t get to talk to you,” the guy said with a small, dark smirk. His lips had all the characteristics of a switchblade opening. Those electric tingles in Frank’s head moved down his spine. Maybe he was getting a migraine.

“You at least tell me what you were doing in traffic on Main Street?” he asked, ignoring the sweat breaking out on his brow and lower back.

“I didn’t know I was in traffic.” 

Frank had to give him that. “Fair point.” He gave the guy a quick once over, refusing to let his eyes linger. The more he looked, the faster his thoughts raced, the more he needed to remember why he was here, that he loved it here. Westview was perfect. Mary was perfect. The boys were perfect. He could be perfect too, and so could this guy, he stopped fighting whatever was going on in his head.

“You got a name?” Frank asked, making for a notepad.

“Matthew Murdock,” the guy said.

Frank was stunned. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. He jotted it down. “You a local, Matthew? I haven’t seen you around.” 

“No, I’m just…passing through.”

The wince got Frank looking back at his face. “You alright? You hurt?” 

“I’d like to go,” Matthew said.

“Well, you answer a few more questions, and that-“

Matthew’s wince got more pronounced. His hand tightened around his cane, and he straightened up in his seat, his face suddenly hardening into a serious expression. “We have to go. Now.” 

“You want to run that by me again?”

“Frank.”

For a second, it’s like the bullet didn’t graze him. The bullet went into his head. And Mary, she wasn’t there. There was no Mary, no boys, no Westview. Only New York and bloodshed.

And then he was back at his desk, staring into this lunatic’s face, his whole body running cold and sweaty and shaky. “What brings you to Westview?” he asked. “You say you’re passing through. You’re not driving, and we’re not close enough to walk anywhere-“

“You, Frank,” the guy said, “I’m here for you.” 

Frank laughed. “That’s funny.” But it wasn’t. His guts were tying themselves in knots, and his heartrate was starting to rise. Geared up, the doc called it when Frank got his physical done last year. Two years ago. Last week? Time doesn’t matter, ‘cuz that’s all behind him now. He had to keep that under control, and what better place to do that than in Westview! Beautiful neighbourhood, perfect for raising a family; the kind of place where the hardest part of Frank’s day is remembering how he got here. No, wait, that wasn’t right.

“Matthew Murdock,” the guy said again.

“I heard you the first time,” Frank said, his voice hitting a pitch that he didn’t recognize. Dark and gravelly. He didn’t talk like that, not since New York. Not since nighttime – so many nighttimes. He remembered looming on rooftops, even though he was a beat cop in New York. That’s how he got the shot, at the carousel. The sting operation. He was off-duty? No, on. He was on-duty. Somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen.

He placed both his palms on his desk and took stock. The room felt like it was spinning. He couldn’t catch his breath.

“Frank, you-“

“Who the hell are you?” he asked in a whisper.

Cursing – that was new. Or was it? He can grabbed that word out of nowhere. Must have learned it working the beat in New York, but he’d never worked a beat. He’d never been a cop. Except hadn’t he? It was why Maria wanted them out of the city. Why _Mary_ wanted them-

“I’m Matt Murdock.” 

“I don’t know you,” Frank said, glaring at those two scarlet lenses. “I don’t know any Matt Murdock.” 

“Daredevil.” 

Frank slammed his hands on his desk. His whole body crawled with insects. He was going to be sick, and he didn’t want the other guys to see, not because of this creep. “You stay the hell away from me,” he said, making to leave. “You stay away-“

The guy’s hand landed on his wrist. “Red.”

Still nothing, but Frank stopped. He lowered himself inexplicably back into the chair, the strength draining out of his legs. “What did you-?” He couldn’t finish, his throat closing up. He was staring into those stupid lenses of the sunglasses, transfixed on something he couldn’t see, but he felt, something he felt so deeply that his whole body froze in place, trying not to spook it. His thoughts flittered through the events that brought him here; Frank dismissed them. He focused on red. Red lenses, red blood, red suit, red hair. Red knuckles, red punching bag, red robe, red horns, Red. Red, the devil, Red.

Frank felt his eyes burn. A pain erupted through his head. He nearly cried out. Red put his other hand, including the cane, on Frank’s arm, holding him steady, his own face twisting in agony. “You remember me? I’m getting you out of here.” 

“What’s here?” Frank asked him. He shook his head, his eyes darting over his desk. The case files with his name on them, the picture of him and Mary and the kids, two boys with his eyes and nose and smile. “Where the hell is this? What is this place? What am I-?” 

He scrubbed a hand over the right side of his head and found the hair long, longer than it should be. Someone else’s head, someone else’s thoughts, and Frank trapped inside of it all, his own personal hell.

“There’s no time for that,” Red said. “We have to go, Frank, _now_.”

Frank nodded, though his mind was infuriatingly blank. When he tried to think, it was all the fabricated shit, the happy shit, the shit he wanted to believe even though he knew it wasn’t true. The Red stuff, that was more elemental, instinctual. Red was written into him on a cellular level, and he had to trust that grip on his arm as he rose from the desk, as he patted himself down, as he got himself back under control.

“Taking this guy back where he came from,” Frank said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Red rose out of his chair. He put a hand on Frank’s arm, looking to be led, and it felt weird to be leading him.

Morrison made a face. “You okay, Frankie?” 

“Yeah,” Frank said, though he didn’t feel well. He felt like he was hanging by a thread, like he was rolling in and out like a frenetic tide. “Yeah, I am. Don’t wait up for me though.” 

“You got somewhere else to be?” Morrison asked.

Frank couldn’t believe how easy it was. “Yeah, Mary.” The name felt horrible on his tongue and woke him up again: right back to the nausea and the headache and the existential dread that he didn’t know where he was or what the hell he was doing. Red was looking like he wasn’t in much better shape, fighting against whatever this was. Frank pretended that he was who this place convinced him to be. “Mary needs me to pick some stuff up.”

“Oh, right! Barbecue this weekend!” Morrison said.

“Yeah!” Frank forced himself to smile. “Barbecue.”  
  
He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on not puking or running or shooting up the place demanding answers. He focused on Red, gripping his arm, sticking with him at every step, as they left the precinct, heading for home.


	5. “hiding injury” + “i can’t lose you too” + “heart”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another fill for both Febuwhump and FrattWeek. 
> 
> Enjoy, readers!

* * *

“hiding injury” + “i can’t lose you too” + “heart”

Matt thinks he does a pretty good job of covering up the bullet wound until he wakes up.

He doesn’t remember passing out. He doesn’t remember much of anything, actually. The events leading up to his waking up are a blur, as is the waking up itself. His senses are slogging, struggling to keep up with his racing heart and freneticism. Questions dogpile and disappear. He asks whether he was wearing the suit about three times without remembering to answer as he’s struggling to get himself out from under the covers.

His waist burns; Matt ignores the pain. He’s been doing that ever since the bullet hit him; he can do it for a little longer. There are needles pulling on his arms, electrodes on his chest; a pulse ox disappears from his finger in the struggle. Hands land on his shoulders. Matt thinks he hears, and he understands the words until the moment that Foggy stops speaking. Then his brain lets them go, fixed on panic and fog. His tongue is heavy in his mouth; he tastes bile on the back of his tongue along with old hardwood and dust, metal, benzos, saline, Foggy’s lunch or maybe his dinner? He tries to ask one word questions – what, where, how – but his jaw falls on its hinges. The effort of finding word knocks the rest of the strength out of him.

His arms fumble at his sides. His hands slip off Foggy and hit the bed. His eyes are rolling back in his skull and he falls out of awareness as footsteps rush into the room.

* * *

Later, things are calmer, duller. He’s calmer, and his senses are duller. There’s a blanket pulled up to his neck that Matt wants moved; it itches. He can’t get his arms up under it though. Too heavy. His feelings are too heavy to really get worked up about it, and the irritation slip-slides away, making room for that impenetrable drowse.

A hand finds his under the cover, squeezing it. “You’re okay, Matt,” Foggy says. “Just get some sleep.” 

“What happened?” Matt asks. He almost knocks himself out again from the exertion.

“Do you remember getting shot?”

Matt nods, finding that he does somehow. Miraculous. The FBI showed up while he was patrolling, and one trigger-happy agent caught him in the waist. Since when did they have armour-piercing rounds? Guess whenever they got the go to move on Daredevil.

“Where?” Matt asks, not wanting to talk about any of that.

“Safehouse,” Foggy replies. “Danny had this set-up, in case the gang ever got back together, or something.” A sigh. Another squeeze on Matt’s hand before Foggy pulled away, tucking the blanket around his fingers. “You’re so lucky, Matt.” 

“I don’t feel lucky.” He feels a lot like he did after Midland Circle. The bullet wound really wasn’t that bad. He’d had worse after Nobu, he should have been able to handle it. But the day fades away from him after showing up to work. Sounds and smells have this electric tinge like a power surge, his adrenaline making everything too loud or too soft, too astringent or too blurry. Then suddenly he was waking up here, drugged to the gills.

“Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you go to the doctor?”   


“I can’t just go to the doctor, Foggy.” 

“Karen and I, we could-“ 

“You did,” Matt says. But he can tell that’s not good enough, not from Foggy’s heartbeat next to him. His eyelids are fluttering. He doesn’t want to be here, groggy and muffled. His own words are making him dizzy as they spin and spiral through the air. “Look, can we talk about this later?” 

Foggy draws a breath. The air is salty with tears. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, you get some sleep.”

Matt wants to say that he should get some sleep too, but he’s already gone.

* * *

He’s more awake the next time, ready to tell Foggy it’s alright, but it’s not Foggy in the room with him. The atmosphere is fraught, charged, full to bursting with a bass boom so low next to him Matt feels it like a series of punches to the chest.

“You with me, Red? You there?”

Matt closes his eyes and tries to pass the hell out again, but the blanket’s itch doubles in strength. His heartbeat flares in his chest, irritated by the intrusion, the imposition. Danny obviously didn’t tell Frank Castle the location of the safehouse; no, Frank found his way here all by himself, and who the hell knows what he did to the house’s other occupants in order to take Foggy’s spot next to the bed.

The back of a hand comes to rest on Matt’s forehead. He springs to the side, trying to knock it out of the way. He misses, and he gets Frank’s knuckles dragging down his cheek to his neck before falling away.

“You with me, Red?” Every word spoke like its own sentence.

“Yeah, I’m with you,” Matt replies. He ignores the mess of sensations he’s experiencing – the pain, the disorientation, the nausea. All of it. He faces down Frank like he always has and he always will. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“Got something to say.”  
  
“So say it. Then go.” 

“Listen to you: acting like you can call the shots. You call the one in your gut, too?” 

Matt goes to lunge; Frank stops him, one arm across his chest while the other catches his flailing hands. Matt tries to move his legs and has to scream, the stitches in his waist pulling. His body collapses into a fit of shakes. Frank withdraws and hits a button. The area around Matt’s IV port burns and warmth eases through him, dimming his senses, his feelings, his thoughts. He thinks he might pass out then, but Frank’s careful. All blunt force when he needs to be, but Frank’s also got a technical precision. Matt’s dull enough not to lash out, but his perception is just big enough to accommodate both him and Frank.

Frank leans towards him, his face floating inches from Matt’s. “You listen here, Red, and you listen good.” He pats Matt on the face when Matt’s eyelids start to flutter, and Matt has one burst of adrenaline strong enough to grab Frank by the wrist. Which is exactly part of Frank’s plan, because he is listening. All his dull senses are fixed on Frank, on his thundering pulse and the warmth of his breath and the smell of his hair, of his skin. On his calluses, his palm. On being in Frank’s grip. “The little stunt you pulled after the feds, you ain’t never going to do that again. Pretending like you’re not shot when you are. Do you understand me?”

“Why do you-?” 

“Yes or no,” Frank says, “Do you understand me?” 

Matt sighs, his eyes closing. His head spinning and yearning for sleep, despite or perhaps because of Frank’s proximity, his touch. “I didn’t know you cared,” he says, earning a few claps on the cheek to bring his eyes back open. Matt lets a smirk cross his features.

“Not about caring,” Frank says.

But Matt can feel his heartbeat saying otherwise. He tells Frank as much, his smirk broadening, the drugs intensifying his euphoria, his joy, his bliss, at finding Frank out. “You care. You care so much you broke into the Iron Fist’s safehouse.” 

Frank’s hand slips across his cheek and comes around the back of his head, fingers digging into Matt’s scalp. His pinkie finds its way onto Matt’s neck, sending this perfect sensation roving through Matt’s shoulders. He revels in it, his muzzied mind reeling with bliss. “You thought you’d lost me,” he says, smiling.

“Yeah, I did.”   
  
The warmth stops. Matt’s whole body goes cold. He gently tries to extricate himself from under Frank’s hand, but Frank’s suddenly brushing another hand back through his hair and everything is wrong, so wrong. He’s lost complete control of this situation, and he tries not to let Frank know but his smile fades nonetheless. He eases into the touch instead of away from it, his skin charmed, his senses eased. The whole world contracts and it’s him and Frank, Frank and him, and Matt shouldn’t, he didn’t mean it.

Frank’s voice is quiet, and he keeps talking, right through Matt telling him to shut up. “I thought I lost you. I thought I was going to show up here and find you dead. Whole time you were asleep, I thought this was it. This was the end. Never gonna hear Red’s voice again. Never going to kick his ass again. And I hated that, Red. Makes me fucking sick thinking about the world without you in it, thinking about some asshole just taking you out. Makes me fucking sick.”  
  
The way Frank’s heartbeat changes suddenly, without changing speed, from this epic march, this war drum cacophony through Matt’s cheek, to this utter certainty, this vow, it knocks the rest of the fight right out of Matt. He lays there and absorbs it, taking in the promise of Frank’s voice when he says, “You are never going to pull that shit again, Red. Not ever. You are not going to be the reason you’re not in the world anymore. Do you. Understand. Me?”

Matt hangs his head. He feels Frank’s breath ruffle through his hair, and he sighs, living there. “Yeah,” he says. He’s fuzzy enough that he doesn’t really understand the sudden pressure, but deep down, he knows Frank’s kissed him on the head, and that Frank doesn’t move after he does it. He lets his lips flitter through Matt’s hair, speaking straight into him in a whisper, “I can’t lose you. I won’t, Red. I fucking won’t. Not by the Feds, not by any of the dumbasses you’ve fought, not even ‘cuz of you.”

Matt reaches a hand up from under the blanket and holds onto Frank’s wrist. He wants to agree, but his voice is too weak. He’s too tired. Instead, he uses the last of his strength to hold onto Frank and doesn’t let go, even as he falls back asleep.

* * *

Happy Reading!


End file.
